


The truth beneath the snow

by Splintered_Star



Category: Bravely Default (Video Game) & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, Pre-Canon, Religion, reference to pandemic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23190946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splintered_Star/pseuds/Splintered_Star
Summary: Braev Lee, grief stricken and disillusioned after the death of his family, wanders into the blizzard.He does not die.
Kudos: 1





	The truth beneath the snow

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this draft in 2015 and... forgot?? about it??? 
> 
> So yeah. Have an ancient, unedited draft. I think I was definitely /planning/ on doing a series on the founding of the revolution, but. Wishes and fishes, ya know.

Braev stumbled to a stop and slumped against the ice cold door frame, the Vestal's insults still ringing in his ears. The echoing mockery had driven him out of the temple and into the blizzard. In a fit of anger and a desire to be alone, he'd turned down the longer, abandoned right hand path instead of going straight home. He'd found nothing but monsters and snow - and then out of the blizzard, like a ghost or rumor, emerged this.

The frozen castle looked untouched by time or by anything as gentle as mercy. The wall against his back was smooth and blizzard-cold. He fumbled at his pack with fingers that had long since stopped shaking, but he already knew there was no point.

He was the fool that Kamiizumi had always accused him of being, rushing forward on his feelings without bothering to prepare. And this time Kamiizumi wasn't there to watch his back, nor was there a seemingly-friendly bishop to guide him through the complexities of city life. There was only him, numbness inching up his arms, the snow piled up in the doorway around him, and faint cries of beasts in the distance.

This was how he died, then. He hardly cared now. He had abandoned his faith - or it had abandoned him - he wasn't sure, and wasn't sure it mattered. The Orthodoxy was - had been - his everything except for his family, and of them only Mahzer and Kamiizumi survived. Mahzer was stronger than anyone knew - she would be able to survive without him.

He laid his head back against the ice-cold door with a sigh. At least he would die out of the wind. It was more than he deserved for his failure to save those he loved.

Suddenly, the door shifted against him.

He jerked his head up, though the movement made his head swim. He narrowed his eyes against the snow-glare. Had the cold snapped his mind, and conjured up illusions?

The mirage crossed its arms. It took the form of a man, but something about those /eyes/ - Braev coughed and decided that perhaps he had not met with a hallucination, but rather Death itself. Suddenly calling this place Vampire Castle seemed perfect. The figure's burning-black eyes swept over him like the snowdrifts, and lingered the Deacon's vestments he still wore.

"Leave this place," it spoke with an unfamiliar accent, sounding almost like a human and almost like a demon, "I have no quarter for Crystalist dogs."

Braev coughed again, almost laughing. Even Death would turn him away for his crimes. It took him a long time to gather enough breath to speak, but the demon stayed in the doorway watching him.

"I'm...not." He finally wheezed out. The demon raised his eyebrows in eloquent silence, glancing at his clerical robes, the frost-covered crystal shard he wore around his neck. He coughed, continued, "Or, not...anymore. I don't know."

Belief and outrage and faith and doubt warred inside of his head, uncooled by the blizzard. Perhaps he would die in that war with the winner unknown.

The demon tilted his head, his expression shifting. He stepped close and pressed a hand to Braev's neck, tilting his head up and staring into his eyes. The demon's eyes burned brightly, swirling with unreadable emotion.

"Can you stand? Of course not," the demon sighed, without waiting for a response. Braev barely registered the hand tugging on his shoulder, sensation muted in the cold. His vision had begun to blur at the edges, turning the demon into a black smudge against the snow. "Come on, I've no desire to dig a grave today..."

The demon hauled him up with surprising strength and draped Braev over his back. Braev tried to support his own weight, but his feet slid against the snow and he lurched. The demon compensated easily, with only a muttered, "Stay /put/" as acknowledgement.

The door to the massive castle slid open noiselessly, opening into an entrance hall barely warmer than the storm outside. Braev gasped as a pack of hellhounds scrambled to their feet, growling, sulfurous clouds pouring from their mouths. He fumbled at his side, trying to find the hilt of his sword -

"Heel." The hellhounds stilled obediently, their ears flopping over. They woofed and their claws scraped against the floor as they shuffled. Braev stared, both at the hounds and the demon, and his hand fell from his hilt. The demon deposited him on nearby padded bench with no obvious effort. Braev stared up at the demon, unsure if he were savior or simply a different death.

The demon glanced over him again, frowning, and pulled a sword from a sheath at his side. Braev struggled to sit up on the bench and reach for his own blade, suddenly certain that thin red blade would be his end. His fingers were too stiff to grip the hilt, and his arm shook beneath him. He grit his teeth. At least, he resolved to take death without flinching.

The demon only sighed again, and set the tip of the blade against Braev's damp tunic. Braev's breath froze for a long moment - but then the blade slid through his tunic and up, exposing his chest but barely touching the skin. Braev hardly breathed, his hands shaking - he tried to reach for the man's hands- 

The demon muttered something - Was that Adventist? - and Braev knew no more.

Braev awoke with a gasp, shuddering with pain as heat worked into his nearly-frozen body. He /ached/ like he'd been beaten, but he was able to breathe in sulfur-tinted air. Slowly, his sense returned to him.

He lay in a comfortable bed, the fabric finer than he had encountered before. Next to him, as hot as a wood fire, lay a massive hellhound. It raised its head at his movement, and his breath caught at the long fangs so close to his face. It was a terrible beast, vicious claws curled in the blankets and spikes bursting out of its fur.

The hound sniffed at him once, as if to confirm his existence, and then settled back down on the bed with its paws crossed beneath its maw. Its breath puffed against his skin and warmed him with every sulfur-tinted huff.

His soaked clothes were gone, which in truth was only reasonable. They had been doing more harm than good by the end. He knew these symptoms, and he knew this treatment as well. Every winter a dozen travelers ended up in his village, half frozen, and he'd always helped the treatment. His father would never let him live it down, finding out he'd fallen to the cold...

....but his father would never find out. His father had been doomed the moment the blockades went up, and none of Braev's effort had saved him. Even if he had torn down the blockades with his own hands, the only possible cure had been denied them in the name of 'reverence'. Only corpses remained of his family now.

Corpses - and his wife, who was waiting for him. Guilt chased through his stomach. She must be torn with worry. He felt at his neck, reassured that his pendant remained. It had been a gift from Mahzer, when he left for his training. He pushed at the hound, intending to stand, but it only woofed at him placidly.

He was hardly prepared for the long trek to the capital, he conceded to himself grudgingly. He would have to re-supply and find out exactly where he was - and perhaps about the master of this place. He owed his life to the gruff stranger - who called him a Crystalist dog and commanded hellhounds, but carried him in and saved his life.

The blasphemous avatar of death had shown more care for a stranger than the Archbishop had for loyal believers. The idea troubled him.

Resolved to discover more about his savior, he shuffled half-way out from beneath the hound. It woofed at him, once, but allowed the movement. He patted a section of its neck that wasn't covered in spikes before he thought about what he was doing, and sat up to look around the room.

It was sparsely decorated, though every inch of it seemed as finely wrought as the fabric of the bed. The walls were covered with paintings, and while he could not see any of them in detail, there was something similar in the style of them. To one side of the bed there was a chair suitable for the Archbishop, with clothing draped over it, his sword leaning against the leg. The door gleamed darkly like the rest of the castle, and was half-open. Through it he could hear the scratch of claws and the woof of hellhounds, and the faint slither of leathery wings.

He could hear no sound of any other humans, though. No laughter or whispered conversation, no footsteps or switch of clothing. Braev swallowed. Did no one live in this castle but beasts and their strange master? Suddenly, a billow of smoke erupted in the corner of his eye - but when he looked over he saw his savior standing at the side of the bed, arms crossed and holding a steaming cup in one hand.

The man uncrossed his arms and gestured with his free hand, pointing down at the floor next to him. Braev blinked but the hound responded instantly, leaping off of the bed with a grace and gentleness that he did not expect from the creature. His savior patted the hound on its nose, and then offered the steaming cup to Braev. "Here."

Braev slowly took it with a nod. "...thank you." The smell hit him, spiced and warm, and he realized he knew this brew. It was a traditional village drink for hypothermia, the recipe passed from healer to healer in rural areas but all but forgotten in the cities. His village healer had shown him how to make it, to help Mahzer through the winters. He took a sip - his village's brew was sweeter than this, but otherwise the same.

He may be the only one who knew that recipe now. Such a small thing, but it laid another layer of grief over him. To distract himself, he took another drink and then looked up. His rescuer watched him with banked fire in his black eyes, with the bearing of a noble and an expression that Braev could not begin to read.

"Now that you're not half frozen," his savior said in that unfamiliar accent, "I would appreciate an explanation as to why you were trying to die on my front door."

Braev knew he owed the man an answer, but as he took another drink, he did not know what to say. Should he explain himself to a blasphemer? Then again, according to the Vestal, he was one himself, suggesting nothing less when trying to save his family. He still was not sure if she was right. Finally, he settled on,

"I was...lost." Perhaps the stranger would miss the layered meanings. He certainly hadn't intended to end up the Vampire Castle, having always believed it mostly rumor and superstition. "I thank you for your assistance."

The possible-vampire raised his eyebrows again. "It takes quite an effort at 'getting lost' in order to reach here." Braev snorted, unable to deny that. "And the real reason?"

Braev let out a long breath. Those burning-black eyes missed nothing, then. Perhaps he had died in the snow and this was his reckoning, the accounting of everything he had done. The bone-deep ache of his limbs warming reminded him that he yet lived - on this man's suffrage. He looked up and met the man's eyes evenly. Reality, hallucination or reckoning, he would speak the truth.

"I wanted to get as far away from the Orthodoxy as possible." The stranger blinked, the first expression of surprise Braev had seen on the man. Braev finished his drink and held it in his lap. "It would appear I succeeded."

"Not quite, but you've made a good start." Now Braev blinked, and was that a hint of a smile in the man's voice? The stranger continued, "So why was a cleric fleeing the temple?"

There were so many things he could say. The whole of it seemed too big for words - should he tell of hearing the barricades going up, of knowing his family was doomed? Of scouring every holy text for a possible cure, consulting healers and deacons and constructing something that could /work/, and then his solution being rejected out of hand?

Should he describe arguing with the Archbishop until his throat was sore, until his throat was clogged with frustrated words? Kneeling in prayer in front of the Crystal for hours but hearing nothing back but the sound of his own heartbeat? Being called in front of the assembly and not only chastised but /mocked/ for daring to try and save lives?

Braev was not sure which one was the moment everything broke, or what explaining would mean for him. The stranger's manner had shifted, barely warmer, but he was no closer to knowing why he had been rescued. The stranger insulted Crystalists but recognized the vestments of the church, and kept his home bare hours away from the main temple. Who had he managed to stumble upon?

He stared down into his empty cup for a long moment. In the end, he opted for the simplest answer, the one that required the least details.

"....my home village is," He paused, huffing out a bitter breath, and corrected, "/Was/ on the other side of the blockades." It was easier when he didn't have to meet the man's eyes, unsure of what he would find there. "Apparently my proposed solution was blasphemy and I should be ashamed for even suggesting it."

Rage and grief burned in his stomach, a fire that had propelled him through the snow and had slowly, slowly given into despair and doubt. Yes, the sanctity of the Crystals was paramount, otherwise the world would crumble into disasters and disorder - but surely the plague itself was a disaster! Surely it was worth it to save the lives of believers, even at the cost of the reputation of the crystals?

If the Church wouldn't use its power to help its followers, then what was the blasted /point/?

He finally glanced up - and found sympathy in those black eyes. Now, his savior seemed less like a vampire or Death and more like a man - with impossibly old eyes for his young face, but almost human nonetheless.

The man nodded, once, his eyes shadowed. "The Orthodoxy has, since its inception, valued its own power over the well-being of its members." The man looked up, fully human in his empathy. "There's likely few survivors. I'm sorry."

Braev swallowed thickly and nodded. "I know." Nevertheless, he inclined his head. It was more sympathy than he had received from any of his fellow priests, who had praised their Noble Sacrifice and called them holy martyrs. "Thank you."

The stranger glanced over him once more, lingering on training scars and the crystal pendant, and then crossed his arms. He gestured with one hand to the chair. "There are dry clothes, and warm food down the hall. The hound will guide you." Braev glanced to the chair - then with a billow of smoke the stranger was gone. He stared at the place his savior had been a moment before, and then slid out of the bed to dress.

The hellhound at his side nudged him once, and then pushed the door to the hall open with its nose. He followed it into the hall, wary. What else was there to do? The hallway was silent, dark, the walls of the same dark material as the rest of the castle and lit by torches of cold witch fire. Art covered every surface, paintings clustered thickly on the walls. Braev narrowed his eyes at one portrait and ignored the nudging of the hound long enough to examine it.

The figure bore the robes of an Archbishop, albeit from several centuries ago. He thought he recognized the face from his own studies, but the composition cast an ominous shadow over the figure and rendered it unfamiliar, malicious. He drew back from it, unsettled, and carried on - only to jerk back as what he thought to be a statue of a massive bat adjusted its wings and blinked lazily at him.

Whether he was risking his soul by being her or if it were already lost, he had reached the end of the hallway. He wasn't sure what he expected. So little was as it seemed.

He blinked as he entered a grand but nearly empty hall, finding walls covered with art and a small table tucked in the center. His host stood at the side of the set table, and hellhounds lounged in the corners of the hall like hunting dogs. The hound at his side barked once, as if to announce his presence, and then trotted off to meet its pack mates.

His host bowed slightly, gesturing to the meal with one hand. "I apologize for the fare. I rarely have guests."

Braev bowed deeper, and then glanced over the food. Perhaps his richer -former- colleagues would call it poor fare, and it looked out of place in the huge hall, but Braev had spent half of his life growing his own food, and usually ate far simpler meals. "Irrelevant. I am grateful for your hospitality. My name is Braev Lee, and I am in your debt."

His host nodded, accepting the thanks, and sat down at the table with a gesture for Braev to follow. "Lester DeRosso."

Braev considered the name as he sat down. It was unfamiliar, not fitting into the naming conventions he knew. But no matter - for now, his savior's name and family were as irrelevant as the simplicity of the food. He was still chilled, and the food was warm, so he nodded and began to eat.

His host did not eat, instead watching Braev over folded hands and occasionally sipping on a red liquid. Braev felt a brief flush of embarrassment for his unrefined manners, but resolved to ignore the memories of his first few months in the city. Status markers were a distraction, even in a place as filled as this one with fine fabrics and artwork.

Braev rubbed his thumb over the carved handle of his fork. Gilt with silver, or solid? Impossible to tell without cutting it open.

He glanced around the room. Windows, high up in the walls of the grand hall, allowed in enough light for him to tell that the storm had passed and it was likely morning. He looked back to his host.

"How long was I asleep?" 

DeRosso inclined his head. "Overnight." Braev's expression twisted with guilt. Mahzer must be worried. He'd stayed overnight at the temple before, more often as his arguments failed one after another, and she always fussed over him when he returned. DeRosso took a sip of his wine, clearly not drunk in the slightest, and raised his eyebrows. "Someone waiting for you at home?"

Braev nodded, looking down. "My wife." HIs love, his soul mate. She'd cried when the barricades went up, and all he could say to assure her was that he would do the best he could. What could he say to her, now that "the best he could" only earned him mockery? He swallowed the last of his meal. "I should return to her." Perhaps by the time he returned home, he would know what to say.

"Hmm." DeRosso tilted his head, as if in thought. "Are you going to stay with the church?" The words resonated with a strange weight, like the future balanced on each letter.

Braev let out a breath. The church was all he had ever known, all he had ever wanted to do, and yet....

"...I don't know." After what the Vestal and the Archbishop had called him, his future with the church was over. After what he had seen, he was not sure if he could bear it continuing.

"I see." DeRosso held his gaze, the man's expression unreadable. "And if not?"

Perhaps he was on trial yet, as surely as he had been standing before the Vestal. Now, as then, he would not - could not- give any answer but the truth. Perhaps it would earn him mockery once more, but it did not matter.

"What is there to do?" He asked, refusing to look down. He had rested but was no closer to as solution. To stay with the Church was intolerable, but to leave would put Mahzer in danger. Braev had no hesitation in putting his own life on the line, but would not do so to his wife. "The world belongs to the Orthodoxy, and they have little tolerance for a failed cleric. Where could I go?" 

Of all the unexpected things, the man grinned. The expression was layered with promise and just a touch of wickedness, of the glee of secret knowledge or a well-played trick. A hint of a pointed fang lingered at the edge of his smile.

"The Orthodoxy only owns this land, and even that less than it believes." Braev blinked, because surely even in this unlikely place that couldn't be possible. The Orthodoxy ruled the world and controlled its inhabitants for the benefit and glorification of the Crystals. The church may have been corrupt or misguided, but to say it wasn't /powerful/? His host crossed his arms, still smiling. "I can get you and your wife out of the country. There are anti-Crystalist sympathizers in the north of Eisenburg. If you're half decent with that sword of yours, you'll be welcome there."

Braev gaped, his mind sliding like an out of control sled. Possibilities and objections crashed into each other, in a whirlwind of disbelief. It couldn't be possible, could it? A place where he could have a future of his choosing again, out of the reach of the church? Where he could help people without being held back by elders drunk on their own power? His infinitely patient host waited for the long moment it took for him to croak out,

"I’ll... have to talk to my wife. In the capital."

DeRosso inclined his head, a streak of mischief lingering in his expression. "There's a side path that won't take you past the head temple. I will accompany you. We'll leave whenever you are ready." Braev nodded numbly, still utterly bewildered.

Nevertheless, he found himself smiling to match his companion, a wild spark of hope threatening to catch his chest alight.


End file.
